Hell's Angels
by Stretch1
Summary: The trials and tribulations seen through the eyes of the children from Hell's Kitchen. (PG for now, will go higher depending on chapter)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own the concept of newsies, but these are my characters so if you have the sick and random urge to sue someone, do it to someone else and waste your own damn time. Wow…I'm nice….SMOOCHES

~*~*~*~

The sun sets behind the industrial buildings that line Manhattan, the children of the Hell's Kitchen sitting idly as their first moments of rest end the last bit of the day. Muscles aching, heads pounding, the lot took turns ignoring the pains of their bodies and the hunger than thundered within them. Looking at them, you can see the worldly appearance they seem to hold despite their young ages and deprived upbringing. A dozen of them, that's all there was, and that was all there needed to be. 

Within the muddled group sitting there on the docks of the west side of the island, a young , somewhat dazed boy could be seen, brown hair spiked in every which way from lack of care. The leader, they said he was, yet Samuel "Snare" Kingston held himself in no rank above his comrades. Lighting a cigarette, taking a sip from the beer bottle held loosely in the other hand, he had the pensive appearance of a dreamer. 

"Why in the hell does this neighborhood end with "kitchen" if there isn't a damn thing to eat a no one to cook it for me?" Sharp scowled with the faint sound of an eastern European accent, as his stomach snapped at him once more. His hazel eyes flashing, the cynical and callous boy threw his own beer bottle to the emptying streets below. He never apologized for any actions he took and never asked any questions. That was his way and that was how his companions had accepted him, for better or for worse. 

"That's why they stick "Hell" in front of it, mate," Satire replied, grinning at the Bohemian despite his own famished state. Milo Verik was well known to offer any sort of witty remark and sardonic comeback, whether it was welcome or not. Pushing his square, silver framed glasses back in place on the sweating bridge of his nose, he hummed the chorus of "The Man on the Flying Trapeze".

"Leave it to Satire to find the logic in everything," came a soft English voice behind Snare., her brown hair lying flat on her head from the day's exertion. Christiana Sebille, fondly called London, smiled at her German friend before going about her business, which meant staring at nothing in exhaustion. Reciting a few lines of Shakespeare in her head, she reminded herself that beyond the industrial smoke there was something beautiful about the world. Only, with her aching limbs, it was doubtful she was going to find it any time soon. 

"And leave it to you to point out the obvious," Tidbit teased, a curly blonde lock falling in front of her crystal blue eyes as she adjusted herself. As much as Satire was known for having a witty remark, Tidbit was known to have _any_ remark. The tiny Scandinavian was given her nickname from both her small height, unusual for her sixteen years of age, and her uncanny habit of only speaking in short, choppy sentences, as if she never had a full thought at once. 

Upon hearing the small one's good-natured jab at London, Jerome Aleron smiled to himself, and opted not to say a word to the small, fiery pixie before him. Of all the newsies sitting there, Saint, as he was called, could always be counted on to keep his opinions to himself for fear of seeming antagonistic in any way. A people person through-and-through, Saint had a habit of being extremely polite, and even more of a habit of being self-sacrificing. Yet, if there was one thing he could do, it was tell stories. Whether it would be from the bible, a forgotten book, or from his own head, Saint could make any story worth listening to. This helped when the morals and brilliance of tales long told seemed all but forgotten on the seedy streets of New York. 

"Down, little one," came a voice next to Saint. The Hungarian tone of it automatically gave way to who spoke, as the boy the words originated from smiled at his tiny best friend. It seemed odd to many that Tidbit and Ervin "KO" Laszlo would bond so closely, for obvious reasons. The first being the complete difference in appearance, seeing at Tidbit, standing at five feet, seemed even more tiny when standing next to the 6'4" KO. It was his height, and large build, that allowed him to take on another job when the profits of selling papers didn't quite cut it: amateur boxer. Yet, it seemed the bigger he was, the bigger his heart was, being the most sensitive of their group of vagabonds. Lovingly dubbed "Gentle Giant" by the small Scandinavian, he stayed a newsie despite the bad pay, not for the money, but for the friendships involved. 

"Huh?" was all that seemed to come afterwards, and as the other eleven chuckled in amusement, the small newsboy who said it sat confused and slightly embarrassed. Scatter was quite absent-minded, his thought process could be interrupted at the drop of a….ooh, bird….I mean, well, you get the point. Cyrus Manelin was hoping he would grow out of it, seeing as it kept conversations difficult to follow from time to time, and being a thirteen year old boy was enough of an excuse for his inattentive actions. Needless to say, this kept the Cyprus-born, New York-raised Scatter out of conversations that lasted more than two minutes. 

"Typical. You never change, do you, Scatter?" came the calm, subdued voice of Joshua Samson. Known as Dusk for his habit of coming out in the evening and going to bed at sunrise, he had a tranquil demeanor yet a mysterious look hidden in his eyes. Getting his start selling the evening edition, he also relied on bets, pick-pocketing, and other menacing habits he picked up from life on the streets. The only son to a rabbi, Dusk had pride in his background yet lack of faith in his religion. 

"Says the man who wakes up when the sun goes down," Bound said, her big mouth smiling sweetly. Endearing and amiable, Dessa Epifanio was the most approachable of the newsgirls. Always willing to give a compliment, she never quite knew how to take one herself. Being the oldest child in a motherless home, her father, though he meant well, constantly nagged at her every fault. Taking it upon herself to make a life for herself, she learned how to live life on the streets of Manhattan, her thin, almost malnourished, frame allowing her to run, leap, and climb out of harms way, earning her nickname from Snare. However, as much as she had conditioned herself to live on the streets, she still returned home to check on her siblings, still longing for a word of approval from her father. 

Petite rolled her eyes at the conversation at hand. They were acting like children, badgering each other back and forth. Of course, Petite liked to think herself mature. It's the achievement every ten year old girl longs to attain. Of course, what her young mind had yet to grasp was the more you accept your age, the more you understand the brilliance of not having to act it at all times. Yet, she was still a child, and, much to her dismay, looked the part. Standing at 4'5", the small Jersey-born girl was still quite shy, a characteristic not helped by the fact that she was the second youngest of their group, and felt somewhat inferior from time to time. However, the more they got to know her, the more she seemed to come to life, and couldn't help but acknowledge that Lilka Stanislav, their little Polish princess, was vastly approaching womanhood. 

It was times like these that Matthew Kingston cherished most. Though he usually kept to himself, helped by the fact that he was quite a nervous child and had a tendency to stutter, he loved to listen to his older brother and the rest simply relaxing and making small talk while they let their tired limbs rest a while. Matthew, or Stutters as he was dubbed by his brother, and soon called by the rest of the gang, was arguably the most skittish of the newsies, easily frightened and not very trusting of those on the outside. However, if it was one thing he had going for him, it would be his loyalty, if not his skills as a marbles player. Someone so small and frightened, yet always willing to back you up should the worst come, was quite rare, and none of them took it for granted. 

Their eyes threatening to close, feet throbbing and arms aching, the time came for them to push through the last few hours of their working day. With the evening edition now making its way to the distribution center windows, they figured it time for them to do the same. Legs screaming in protest, they made their way to gain the last bit of profits to be had for the day, hoping against hope the headlines had improved in the last twelve hours. 


	2. Holy War: Part 1

Part 1 of chapter 1. HAHA! JUST PART ONE OF THE FIRST CHAPTER! MWAHAHA….YOU ALL HATE ME NOW!

~*~*~*~

It was there in plain sight. The broken glass, the paint on the doors, the sheer anger that produced it. And, as Jonah Samson stared blankly to the once promising synagogue, the shattered windows stared vacantly back. The hatred that plagued him in Jerusalem seemed to have sailed with him to the so-called promising land of America, and emotionally slapped him across the face as another shard of glass hit the ground below. 

As the thieves of the city crawled back in their holes from another night on the streets, Dusk took his cue to make his last stop of the evening. Yet, as he approached what had for several years now been his father's synagogue, he only found a desperate man in the shadow of a desolate building. Placing a hand on his father's shoulder, for the first time in Dusk's existence as a New Yorker he felt his very background was the cause of every emotional wound that threatened to consume him. 

"What happened?" was all he could managed, more speaking to himself than anything else, his voice hoarse and subdued. His father simply shook his head slowly, before hanging it in bitter sorrow, tears flowing freely and quietly from his worn, weary eyes. Dusk decided it best to escort his father back to his tenement, consoling him as much as he could, though thoroughly distraught himself. Talking Jonah down as he fixed him some hot tea to calm his nerves, the younger Samson's mind was playing tricks on him. Years of resentment in Jerusalem immediately caused him to blame one group of people: the Muslims of New York. 

Dusk's walk back to the warehouse, sun fully up and newsies clambering to the distribution offices, only made the thoughts toil in his mind. They seeped into every memory, every bitter word ever spoken and jotted away in his subconscious. By the time he reached the steps of home, he was blaming every hateful incident on those whom, in his eyes, had tormented him since birth.

Those same indignant, accusing eyes caught sight of one of his own, not by blood or by belief, but by the honorable occupation of newsboy. And yet, his sight clouded the friendship they had shared for years and instead only pulled apart the fact that the Cyprus-born boy was an enemy, a Muslim. 

"Heya Dusk, good night?" Scatter asked unknowingly, his charming, adolescent face glowing brightly. 

"Don't ask," was his only reply as he made his way up to the bunkroom for the night, Scatter watching him leave abruptly, perplexed. 

"What little night creature crawled up his righteous ass?" Satire asked, the same confused face fixed in place as he walked behind Scatter. 

"Beats me, but it sure ain't like him," Scatter shrugged before going about his business. Satire watched him and laughed to himself, wondering if his young friend would even remember what had just happened an hour from now. 

The grand majority of the Hell's Kitchen newsies kept morning hours, yet the fact that Dusk kept his own never bothered any of them, and they never had anyone taking care of them to order them around and get him out of bed at a normal time. They all used their profits to rent out an old, useless warehouse for twenty dollars a month, and in living in their own place, he never had to answer to anyone but himself. Sitting there in the large room they made into the boys bunkroom, he peered down through the window at his eleven companions below. What did they know? What did they even care? Exhaustion and anger were causing delusions to pop out of nowhere, making him wonder if they were really on his side or simply acting, especially Scatter. 

As Satire had predicted, Scatter had pretty much forgotten about the incident by lunchtime, laughing at the day's jokes, KO's easy win ("He hit the ground in a matter of seconds, I'm not lyin'!"), and an anecdote Saint happened to come upon when selling by the local bookstore. It never occurred to him that Dusk was restlessly sleeping back at the warehouse, tossing and turning with nightmares of Jerusalem plaguing his thoughts.

As they entered the warehouse after a long, but mostly productive, day out in the city, Dusk was just coming down the stairs to start his night. Boiling over the early morning's events hadn't helped matters and, as far as Scatter was concerned, he wasn't interested in a damn thing he had to say. Oddly enough, just as this thought past through his head, Scatter opened his mouth to speak to the older newsboy. 

"Sleep well?" he asked, just as he had ever night before this, and just as he planned to ask every night following. It was one thing he seemed to keep track of, yet this happened to be the one night it was a bad idea to say anything at all. 

"Like you give a damn," he spat, buttoning up the last button on his shirt. 

"What?" was all Scatter could manage, which was more than the other ten could, turning to face the angered Israeli, mouths and eyes wide open. 

"You damn well heard me," he said, forgetting completely who he was talking to and the friendship they had shared for years. Now it was just war. A war between backgrounds that had haunted him for years and at the moment blinded him towards what really mattered. 

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but-" Scatter started, raising his voice in confusion and defense.

"You don't know? Bullshit! You're people killed my father's synagogue," he yelled. 

"What the hell are you going on about?" Satire interrupted. This was going entirely too far. 

"Stay out of this, you Prussian jackass," Dusk started. He wasn't normally like this, Satire being one of his best friends out of the group, but he was beyond livid, more towards the world than at any of them. But, at this point, he was unable to tell the difference. So, as Satire and the rest of them stood there shocked, Dusk continued. 

"You're people destroyed my fathers synagogue. He gave all he had for that place, and you're people took it away. They so brilliantly tore away at the foundation my father and I have tried to create for ourselves since we got here. It was always so easy for you people to rip away at the Jews, wasn't it? Hell, it comes natural. You've been doing it since-" 

"**My** people didn't do _shit _to you," Scatter screamed, enough to make even the irate Dusk have to take a minute to organize his thoughts. But, by that time, the younger boy had run upstairs, leaving the rest to try and figure out what the hell had just happened. 

~*~*~*~*~

Thats it for now. Shout outs later! IM SO TIRED!!! But later, I promise!!

Stretch


	3. Holy War: Part 2

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Tree: aww, you're so sweet. Thanks a bunch!

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Ershey: Yeah, we tend to feel bad for both of them. Lets face it, its not an easy life and these things are still hard to deal with. THANKS FOR READING EVERYTHING I SEND TO YOU!

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Blaze: Oh $%#@! RUN FOR THE HILLS!!! SATIRE HAS A FIC! NOOOOOOO….maybe I'm being a teeny tiny little bit dramatic. 

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Fantasy: How did exams go? And late reviews are better than no reviews! Thanks!

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A: No…not from Canada, and even if I weren't, the title is significant to the story, no matter what its related to now. They are from Hell's Kitchen, a neighborhood in NYC. So, it kind of fits, to me at least. 

~*~*~*~

A cloud of smoke loomed over the table, the pensive boy below it staring at nothing. What had happened? A pacifist through and through, the memory of the fight he just witnessed pained him deeply. And, although Saint himself wasn't a part of it, he nonetheless felt dragged down into the entire conflict. Dusk had never lashed out at any of them before, and, from what he could tell, anyone in his life. And, yet, the truth screamed in his ears like it had for the last hour. 

"Is something wrong, priest?" came a calm and benevolent voice behind him. Satire, although quite sarcastic at times, was for the most part a quite compassionate person. 

"So it would seem, kid," he replied, snuffing out his cigarette and finally turning to look at the German. "Milo, why does it matter so much? Why do-"

"Things like what just happened happen?" he said, answered this time to his real name. Serious conversations in the warehouse called for a slight formality, and, after all, their selling names were simply nicknames. "Well, when God created the heavens and the earth, he also created problems. One of the beginning ones being the fact that everyone has a different opinion on where we came from, why, and for what bloody purpose."

"I know that part….but why the resentment?" Saint asked, his slightly naïve outlook on the world around him taking affect. 

"Because we're human. Because we always have to be right, and when we're told otherwise we get angry. And, because we hate the differences in the world. Anything slightly different from ourselves, our community, and we can't stand it. A single person can be as compassionate and considerate and the messiah himself, be it one that's already come or one that's set to be. But, the entire race as a whole are cowardly, bitter, and judgmental. Its instinct. Religion just glorifies it somehow, You can't escape it, and sometime in your life it catches up with you somehow."

"Damn, kid, you _are_ cynical," replied Saint, shaking his head. "I thought we were different though," he finished as an after-thought.

"No, we're not. As much as we want ourselves to be. Jerome…where are you from?"

"Nantes, France. You knew that."

"Bear with me, it comes with a point."

"With you everything has a point, or at least a sharp edge to it."

"Funny," Satire said, arching an eyebrow before continuing. "Everyone was Catholic there, right? You, you're family, your community."

"Yeah, so?"

"When you came to America, you're neighborhood was mostly Italian and French immigrants, still very much Catholic, right?" 

"Yeah…"

"My point is, you may have read about all the religious torment and all from books, but you have yet to experience it first hand. That's why you don't understand," Satire said. 

"And you have?" Saint asked, inquisitively.

"Why else do you think I'm here?" he finished, before looking down for a moment, as if drifting into thought. The boys knew bits and pieces of each other's pasts, that wasn't the issue. It was the deeper parts, the wounded ones that would, on occasions such as these, open once more, bleeding memories and vulnerability until it once again healed leaving only scar tissue.

"Opportunity I thought."

"Well, that's always a reason for any of us. A side reason though was my background. My father was Jewish, my mother, like you, a Catholic. The conservatives on my Frankfurt community thought it to be against some sort of rule or something. They weren't very straight-forward with their thoughts though. It was mainly behind our backs and all. Muttering things about how she should be with some upstanding Catholic, or how he should be with someone who at least knew what the hell Passover was. My peers at school were the problem though. You know kids. We can never keep our mouths shut, and we always have a damn opinion. Half-breed. Why is it if your parents differ in anything, people always see you as some sort of mix-up?" he finished, eyes occasionally going back and forth from Saint to a particularly fascinating spot on the floor. 

"I wouldn't know. I never went to school," he confessed, sighing disappointedly.

"You wouldn't have liked it. They teach you how to read and write and, in turn, teach you how to be like them."

"I wonder if Dusk went to school…"

"What difference does it make?" Satire asked. 

"Just wonder where his resentment comes from, that's all."

"Dunno, but from the way he acted it all came from poor Scatter. I never heard the kid say a straight sentence before, let alone yell one." 

As the two boys sat in thought, Dusk himself was doing the same across town. The bar of the night being Lynch's, smoke dimming whatever light there might be and voices in a constant whisper. Flicking the ashes off his own cigarette, Dusk rubbed his temples, trying to end the constant replay of events that took place an hour before. Scatter was his friend, one of his best come to think of it, and he just verbally assaulted him for no reason at all. Pent up frustration was a bitch, and Dusk was learning that the hard way. He had to talk to Scatter…just not now. Its not that he didn't have the courage…Scatter was sleeping by now, he was sure of it. He would talk to him the next morning. Vowing to do just that, he let his mind stop and rest for a moment, picking a pocket or two in the process. 

Scatter lay there in bed, wondering who was truly at fault in the argument. It had to have been Dusk, and yet, he couldn't shake the idea that he had something to do with it as well. _I didn't do anything to him, and I sure as hell don't know anyone who might have, _he thought to himself, turning over in his bunk for perhaps the hundredth time in the last half hour. Suddenly, his mind drifted back to when he first came to New York, fresh from Cyprus and only seven years old. Open minds were supposedly all around him, and yet all he found were snide comments and merciless sneers. Some opportunity. And, for the first time that night, Scatter began to understand what went through his friend's mind. 

Giving up on sleep all together at about five in the morning, Scatter decided to get an early start, allowing himself to walk in peace and think things through. His mind went back and forth between sympathizing for Dusk and hating his "friend" for what he said, or implied more like. _People make mistakes. But I thought I was more than just someone he could pass off as a traitor when the time suited him. So much for loyalty. Then again, loyalty tends to go on break when memories come into play. Damn pasts and the emotions that come with them. Given the chance, I'd wipe mine out. I may be forgetful, but that's one thing I wouldn't mind saying goodbye to for good. _

He sold all morning and through the afternoon with thoughts like these playing through his mind, avoiding everyone and simply talking to himself for company. It did have a positive result on selling at times, seeing as those who weren't too frightened to buy a paper from him tipped him extra well. Maybe he should cut Dusk some slack. They all had hard times, and he just needed someone to lash out at, and yet a bit of anger still lingered in his mind. 

Dusk had hoped to catch Scatter before he left…sort of. He still hadn't worked out what exactly he was going to say to the boy. What could you say? "Sorry I blamed you for everything that went wrong recently, even if it could never be you. Can we be friends again and pretend like this never happened?" Right, that would work. He didn't want to be completely honest either, the fact that he had a complex about the whole ordeal and everything that had faced him since arriving in America. How can you tell a friend that you can't seem to trust him completely because of what he is, because of what people he doesn't even know did to you? Then again, there was always the prospect of trying and seeing what could come of it. 

The day drifted on, both Dusk and Scatter mulling over a thousand thoughts, their friends simply waiting for the end to come. It wasn't until the sun met the horizon that Scatter headed back, somewhat dreading what could be waiting for him there. Was Dusk still angry? It wasn't his damn fault if he was….but still. Opening the door, there he was. And, yet, he didn't look angry. In fact, he looked downright remorseful. 

"Can…we should…can I talk to you?" Dusk asked, for the first time since any of them could remember, becoming unsure of himself. Scatter simply nodded, and they headed toward the bunkroom, the others staying behind and hoping for the best. 

"Look, I wanted to apologize," Dusk said immediately after closing the door. 

"Where the hell did it come from is what I want to know," Scatter replied, leaning against the wall, keeping his distance and trying to keep his cool should the worst come. 

"Well, you know the first part of it."

"Your father's synagogue was destroyed. I got that, but why me?" 

"Because of what you are. I know I'm being hypocritical, but sometimes someone can't help it when things like these happen."

"What are you talking about?" For once, someone had Scatter's undivided attention. 

"I was mad at you because your people…I mean….some people who follow your religion…once made my life hell. So, automatically, I placed blame where I was used to doing so," he said, trying to explain it much like a teacher would, trying to make it not sound as personal as it really was. 

"But you know I wouldn't do that. Why would you immediately-"

"I didn't. I mean, I didn't mean to. It just came out, and I had just seen it. I just saw what they did, whoever they are, and I couldn't stop thinking about Jerusalem."

Scatter looked at him, unsure of what to say next. He could see the sincerity in Dusk's eyes, helped by the fact that his fervent friend was suddenly on the brink of tears. Dusk on the verge of crying? This didn't happen, this never happened. 

"But you do know that it goes both ways," he said, trying to let Dusk see his side as well. 

"I know. Trust me, I know. Look, I know I'm not doing the best of jobs right now, but I mean it. I really do. I'm sorry, Scatter. I was angry at everything and it happened that you were right there. You spoke to me first and I immediately began to act madly and I knew I shouldn't have but I did anyway. I'm really sorry," he finished, this time his voice becoming cracked, trying desperately not to break down. 

"I'm sorry about your father's synagogue. If there's anything I can do, let me know," Scatter said simply. What else was he supposed to say? It wasn't like he was used to this, especially with Dusk. They both stood there for a bit, taking in the entire conversation. 

"Can we both say this never happened?" asked Dusk, a slightly hopeful smirk on his face. 

"I've forgotten about it already," Scatter joked, leading the way for both boys to meet up with the others as the rest of them finished filing in from selling. For the first time in two days, they indulged in a normal conversation, one void of any talk aside from the news, bad jokes, and sick humor. 


End file.
